


You see the whole world burning

by Aldariel



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Dunmer - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Lore - Freeform, M/M, POV First Person, POV Second Person, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-01-05 10:05:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12187902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aldariel/pseuds/Aldariel
Summary: Lord Vivec taught us that the edge of the world is made of swords. Which one is yours? You armed yourself with certainty that your alone could save your House and guide your people, and the rest... the rest is history.A ficlet collection about a Dunmeri OMC living in the Fifth century of the Thrid Era.





	1. Indoril Rondel

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece written in Russian is posted [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5507407).

I can’t accede to live in midnight shades,  
Or reap the harvest that I haven’t sown:  
It would be cowardice I have forsworn,  
A cowardice not covered with charades.  
  
Into Oblivion my House fades;  
Amidst cold flames and ashes I was born.  
I can’t accede to live in midnight shades,  
Or reap the harvest that I haven’t sown.  
  
I do not find salvation in debates -  
I bravely venture into the unknown.  
Saint Nerevar, I’m not afraid of stones!  
And in this place where destiny awaits  
I can’t accede to live in midnight shades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rondel is a verse form originating in French lyrical poetry of the 14th century. The first two lines of the first stanza are refrains, repeating as the last two lines of the second stanza and the third stanza. For instance, if A and B are the refrains, a rondel will have a rhyme scheme of ABba abAB abbaA(B).
> 
> [A collage illustration](https://pp.userapi.com/c837632/v837632499/69553/mnQp0crNIRE.jpg).


	2. Morning in Mourning Hold

Getting a seat on the Indoril Council provides for a lot of side benefits, including an unlimited access to the House archives. Is it any wonder that you have acquired a taste for spending your early mornings like this, with a book (or two… or three...) conveniently borrowed from one of the Mournhold  libraries?

However, this particular tome seems to be a most unfortunate choice of morning literature. It is an authoritative treatise on Velothi law-making - so authoritative, in fact, that people stopped reading it a few thousand years ago and have been familiarizing themselves with its content retold by contemporary scholars ever since.

Holding a rarity worth three battleships, instead of reverence you feel only boredom, for the book is extremely tedious, like all those opuses written to show their authors’ intellectual superiority rather than to teach their readers anything useful, tend to be…

And then you wake up from a loud, resounding thud. Perhaps your friends who keep telling you that sleeping but four hours per day is dangerously unhealthy are not so wrong? It seems that you’ve fallen into a slumber and dropped the priceless book a hundred times older than you on the floor.

What a shame! The binding did not withstand such violent and degrading treatment, a thick leather cover coming slightly askew. A dozen of pages lie scattered on your Rihadi carpet, and when you are feverishly collecting them on your knees, you suddenly find the one that stands out, its bottom part torn away.

Not being able to fight your insatiable curiosity, you carefully examine this unexpected discovery. Your fingers tingle from echoes of old and sophisticated charms protecting the page from the passage of time: somebody clearly wanted it well-preserved.

And then you find out why.

It is a love letter written in archaic Chimeri, laced with lyrical passages and thinly veiled innuendos... yet cautious, deliberately vague, as if not to expose either an addresser or an addressee.

Oh, but you do know the drill, don’t you? You’ve written plenty of similar letters yourself, muthsera. And somehow you’re not surprised that eventually the author gave up and with their elegant hand wrote a sonnet:

 

_My dearest friend, my lord, my Moon-and-Star,_

_Thy light is blinding, maddening… and sweet._

_Not strong enough to drink it from afar,_

_I will embrace my glorious defeat._

 

_Thy artless smile has seared my very soul,_

_Thy ringing voice has burned me to the core:_

_I can’t maintain illusions of control,_

_I can’t suppress my passions anymore._

 

_Thou have enormous power over me,_

_Unrivalled by all deities and kings._

_Thou hold me captive yet my heart is free,_

_For loving thee has gifted me with wings._

 

_Without thee my life is left ajar,_

_My Moon-and-Star, my lord… my Nerevar._

 

Being a devotedly pious Indoril noble, you have to be terrified and appalled by these blasphemous declarations, and yet...

You carefully tuck the letter back into the leather cover, desperately trying not to think about your Saint Patron’s sexual intercourses...

Well, this Mournhold morning is definitely not tedious anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ascended_Sleepers](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ascended_Sleepers/) is a life-saver: thank you for proof-reading and inspiring this little ficlet of mine ^^
> 
> ([One of the art sources of inspiration](https://digitalinanna.deviantart.com/art/Politicians-448582124)).


	3. Bright Eyes

My mother’s eyes, so beautiful and sad,

Her cheekbones, brows and wicked silver tongue

I have inherited… or so it’s said.

Oh, I despised it when I was still young!

 

How viciously this grim reminder stung,

Betrayal plastered on my very face!

I swallowed words unsaid and songs unsung,

And choked on anger, poisonous and base.

 

I did believe that I was a disgrace,

A grave mistake, a pitiful mishap

Not worthy of my stature or my place...

I did believe her - but I have grown up.

 

My mother’s eyes, so luminous and wild

I have inherited, but I am not a child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Spenserian sonnet: a sonnet in which the lines are grouped into three interlocked quatrains and a couplet and the rhyme scheme is abab, bcbc, cdcd, ee.
> 
> [A collage illustration](https://pp.userapi.com/c639831/v639831056/606ef/8Mji_Msi3bk.jpg).


	4. The Rules of our Race

Although you have absolutely no proof, you highly suspect that Garyn* was poisoned. You simply cannot believe that his was a natural death… And yet, what is more natural for a Dunmeri noble than death by assassination, be it poison or blade or a carefully executed ‘incident’?

Yours is a vicious court, a worthy and capable heir of her blood-forged, daedra-worshipping Chimeri predecessor: children are taken hostage, spouses foully slandered, kin slain in duel - a legalized guild of assassins, for Gods sake!

No wonder the fine art of alchemy is widely popular among His Majesty’s subjects.

No wonder that so many of your peers get poisoned by poison suppressors: virtue, as always, lies in moderation. Only the cautious and clever could possibly survive in the City of Light, and Garyn was always like that — reasonable and sober, a solid shoulder to lean on...

Too stubborn to die when the Law and the Land needed him most.

Not nearly old enough to hand over his duties to you.

You are almost certain that Garyn was poisoned - probably by his second wife’s family, for the proud Serano were quite displeased with how your great-uncle treated the woman and her bastard. Revenge is a powerful motivator, sometimes even more so than any political gain...

And if the motive of gain comes into the equation, you are the prime suspect yourself, Serjo Councillor. After all, who benefits more from Garyn Indri’s death than the mer he adopted and made his legitimate heir?

‘Cui bono? Cui prodest?’, as the Imperials are so fond to say.

These thoughts hurt you more than you care to admit, especially since you used to think about that… not of murdering Garyn, AlmSiVi forbid! But you have already planned your actions in case he died, even though you didn’t expect to witness his death for at least a hundred years.

That's how your mind works, a poisonous twisted thing always eager to mercilessly exploit even the most genuine of your affections. You came to love Garyn and you mourn him deeply, sincerely, privately - and you mourn him in public, as a respectable, pious Indoril noble should, performing elaborate empty rituals. You even shaved your head: a grand and dramatic gesture meant to express your devoutness and self-abnegation, as well as to prove your loyalty towards the Dunmeri laws and customs...

You notice such possibilities when you dissect your world with callous indifference more befitting a Telvanni wizard, and you do not shy away from using them to your advantage. For instance, Serjo Grandmaster is a bitter old mer whose only son died in the Pilgrimage of the Seven Graces some thirty years ago - a bitter old mer with no direct heirs. You know what that means, as well as your fellow councillors do: your lot is always eager to grab more power, for yours is a vicious court, and you are her loyal, obedient children.

Well, let the race begin!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * That’s a namesake of ESO Garyn - a protagonist’s relative.
> 
> [A collage illustration](https://sun9-3.userapi.com/c639818/v639818307/4c5a6/0hkcmAIRtso.jpg).


	5. Ruhn

The shadows fall. What will I find so far from home today?

Sweet darkness rules over the roads where I must roam today.

 

I do not let myself submit to old insipid ways:

The past is dead and buried in a catacomb today.

 

For those who do not wish to crawl, the sky above is clear,

And, looking up, I marvel at Et’Ada’s dome today.

 

The world is full of wonder, its colors rich and lustrous.

To thrive, you can’t accede to see in monochrome today.

 

Yet, indolence of thought eviscerates Dunmeri minds,

Fools often suffer from this not-so-rare syndrome today.

 

But do not trust entirely Muthsera from Deshaan,

For all his clever words will dissipate like foam today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruhn - (Dunmeri) home (lit. hearth-hall).
> 
> The poem loosely imitates the ghazal.
> 
> _Traditionally invoking melancholy, love, longing, and metaphysical questions, ghazals are often sung by Iranian, Indian, and Pakistani musicians. The form has roots in seventh-century Arabia, and gained prominence in the thirteenth- and fourteenth-century thanks to such Persian poets as Rumi and Hafiz. In the eighteenth-century, the ghazal was used by poets writing in Urdu, a mix of the medieval languages of Northern India, including Persian._
> 
> _The ghazal is composed of a minimum of five couplets—and typically no more than fifteen—that are structurally, thematically, and emotionally autonomous._
> 
> _The first couplet introduces a scheme, made up of a rhyme followed by a refrain. Subsequent couplets pick up the same scheme in the second line only, repeating the refrain and rhyming the second line with both lines of the first stanza. The final couplet usually includes the poet’s signature, referring to the author in the first or third person, and frequently including the poet’s own name or a derivation of its meaning.[(c)](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/ghazal-poetic-form)_


	6. Lingering Taste

You knew with absolute certainty that you would fall fast and hard for this woman when she quoted - with perfect accuracy! - a lengthy passage from  _ The 36 Lessons of Ansu-Gurleht _ .

Her alien Redguard beauty mesmerized you: her large and expressive brown eyes, the curve of her soft, full lips, the sway of her generous hips...

“Don't leave,” you said to her once, half-asking and half-suggesting, and she agreed,  _ not leaving _ you for years - until she decided to claim what you could never give to her: a marriage bed and pure-blooded heirs.

You cannot begrudge her this choice - yours was identical.

  
  


***

  
  


“Serjo is terribly occupied with his brooding, lass,” Ishrun’s rich sonorous voice comes from behind the closed doors. “You’d better not disturb him now - he needs to fulfill his daily quota before he becomes sociable again.”

You don’t hear the response but it is probably something sufficiently convincing, for in the end Ishrun lets the visitor in - a young Bosmeri woman, blushing furiously, with a tray of rice cakes in hands… One of the kitchen maids, isn’t she?

Luckily Ishrun knows you all too well - brooding notwithstanding, you cannot refuse a good honey cake.

It tastes like liquid spring sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ansu-Gurleht_ is Vivec's name in Yoku.
> 
> Written for the prompts ‘don’t leave’+’comfort food’ on Tumblr.


	7. Spring

_ I miss you, my love, _

_ Yet even in your absence _

_ Apple trees blossom. _


	8. Family Values

Talking about my parents is never easy for various reasons.

I hardly remember my father - muthsera went missing during his Pilgrimage of the Seven Graces when I was four. For many years I have been led to believe that he simply abandoned his family and caroused somewhere in Suran while my poor mother had to bear the onerous burden of my upbringing.

Now I know better. I highly doubt that the impressive party of Indoril nobles my father was travelling with, including our Grandmaster’s only son, could simply disappear - without leaving a trace - in any of Vvardenfell’s cities. And yet my mother’s side of the family painted a very particular picture, carefully concealing all the details that might have clashed with it. What a lovely display of familial unity!

Well, this in itself could probably tell you all you should know about my relationship with my sweet mother and her charming relatives. I left lady Elanda’s loving care when I was eleven, sent to be fostered by my great-grandfather, and that was one of the happiest days of my life...

The fact that I took after my father is rather disappointing - sadly, he wasn’t the handsomest mer of our land.


	9. Of Laws and Lands

My honour, dearest friend, is far from frail,  
It can sustain a foul deed or two,  
Remorse besieges me to no avail -  
I’m not afraid of what I have to do.

To twist the truth into a pretty lie,  
To break a promise for the greater good  
Is far from easy, yet I can’t deny  
Its benefits that I have understood:

Sometimes the noblest, purest sacrifice  
Is to renounce what’s noble and what’s pure;  
Sometimes the greater good is laced with vice  
And tempts us with its dangerous allure.

Yet I believe my goals can amend  
My wrongs against the Law and our Land.


	10. Hold still

The sight distresses him.

Born under the shadow of the Arena, Ratis is never perturbed by scars. He even admires these stories written on skin, these songs of glorious victories over death...

This scar is different, for it revives that terrible moment when Ratis was sure: his reckless friend got himself killed.

“Hold still,” he says - more for his own sake than for Kerian’s - and gently starts rubbing the ointment.

If the blow had landed on the other side of his face, this fool would have became blind...

The fact that Ratis’s hands don’t shake comes close to an achievement.


	11. Mocking smile

My lady takes delight in my mistakes,  
And she derives intense and endless pleasure  
From every act of sympathy she fakes  
While she observes her victories at leisure.

She is well versed in poisoning my joy  
And making other people do her bidding.  
What she has touched she’s going to destroy  
Or turn it into tainted and forbidden.

We are so similar that I despair -  
I would be thrilled to help her choke on laughter.  
To pay her back in kind is only fair,  
But this is probably what she is after.

Despite these feelings, we are not the same,  
For I refuse to play her wicked game.


	12. Trust

“I was madly in love with you when I was a young girl,” Ishrun confesses. She looks peaceful - sipping her wine, smiling slightly - and her peacefulness is infectious.

This moment is tender and beautiful like an apple blossom.

“I know.”

“When did you figure it out?”

“I didn’t. Not by myself, at least. Llaren told me. And Ratis, too. Please, don’t blame them for their ‘betrayal’! I saw that you weren’t happy here anymore, but couldn’t fathom the reason of your unhappiness... I did always love you - as a sister.”

“I know.”

Your little sister has the most beautiful smile.


	13. His Mantle

My helmet bears a dead mer’s face.  
My birth is built on dead mer’s sins,  
And, forced by rules of our race,  
I have been running ever since:

I used to run from self-disgust,  
From Mother’s scorn, from Father’s flight  
And hungry shadows of the past  
Which stole my willingness to fight;

I tried to run from my mistakes –  
From every glorious shipwreck! –  
And kin with eyes like frozen lakes  
Who dreamed to stab me in the back...

But I have changed this mode of thought  
From “running from” to “running to” –  
To help my land, I lied and fought,  
Not scared of what I had to do.

Like Nerevar, my world awry,  
I armed myself with words of lace  
And swords of steel – so that is why   
My helmet bears this dead mer’s face.


End file.
